The Unwanted Bride Becomes The City's Queen

I was the spare daughter of the Vitiello crime family, born solely to provide organs for my golden sister, Isabella.

Four years ago, under the codename "Seven," I nursed Dante Moretti, the Don of Chicago, back to health in a safe house. I was the one who held him in the dark.

But Isabella stole my name, my credit, and the man I loved.

Now, Dante looked at me with nothing but cold disgust, believing her lies.

When a neon sign crashed down on the street, Dante used his body to shield Isabella, leaving me to be crushed under twisted steel.

While Isabella sat in a VIP suite crying over a scratch, I lay broken, listening to my parents discuss if my kidneys were still viable for harvest.

The final straw came at their engagement gala. When Dante saw me wearing the lava stone bracelet I had worn in the safe house, he accused me of stealing it from Isabella.

He ordered my father to punish me.

I took fifty lashes to my back while Dante covered Isabella's eyes, protecting her from the ugly truth.

That night, the love in my heart finally died.

On the morning of their wedding, I handed Dante a gift box containing a cassette tape-the only proof that I was Seven.

Then, I signed the papers disowning my family, threw my phone out the car window, and boarded a one-way flight to Sydney.

By the time Dante listens to that tape and realizes he married a monster, I will be thousands of miles away, never to return.

Chapter 1

Seraphina Vitiello POV

The phantom bite of the scalpel that had carved my heart out in my previous life didn't sting half as much as the look in my father's eyes right now.

He held out a one-way ticket to London, essentially telling me to go die quietly so my sister could shine.

I blinked, and the ghost of a surgical saw vibrated against my ribcage.

The sharp reek of antiseptic and pooling blood vanished, abruptly replaced by the suffocating scent of expensive cigars and old leather.

I wasn't on the operating table anymore.

I wasn't watching my own life force drain onto the floor while Dante Moretti exchanged vows with my sister.

I was back.

I looked down at my hands.

They were unscarred.

My fingernails were bitten down to the quick-a nervous habit I had broken years ago.

"Take the ticket, Seraphina," my father said.

His voice was a low rumble, the kind that once made my bones rattle in fear.

He sat behind his massive oak desk, the Don of the Vitiello crime family, regarding me like I was a stubborn stain on his pristine carpet.

"Isabella and Dante's engagement party is next month," my mother added from the velvet armchair in the corner.

She didn't look at me. She was too busy adjusting the massive diamond on her finger, catching the light just so.

"We can't have you here, creating... tension," she said. "You know how sensitive your sister is. Your presence upsets her."

*Tension.*

That was a polite word for it.

In my last life, I had begged.

I had fallen to my knees right on this Persian rug.

I had grabbed my father's hand and sworn on my life that I was the one who saved Dante.

I had tried to tell them that Isabella was lying, that she had stolen my code name, "Seven."

That she had stolen the man I nursed back to health in that safe house when he was blind, bleeding, and broken.

They had looked at me with disgust then.

They looked at me with disgust now.

But this time, the desperation in my chest was gone.

It had been cut out of me, along with my organs, on a cold steel table while they toasted to the happy couple.

I looked at the plane ticket.

Economy class.

Of course.

Isabella flew private. The spare was lucky not to be shipped in the cargo hold.

"London," I said. My voice sounded strange to my own ears. Hollow. Scraped clean.

"It's for the best," my father said, his tone final. "You'll stay there until the wedding is over. Maybe longer. We'll send you an allowance. Don't come back until we summon you."

I remembered this moment.

I remembered screaming that I loved Dante.

I remembered my father slapping me so hard my lip split, tasting the copper of my own blood.

I remembered staying, fighting, trying to prove my worth, only to end up as a literal organ bank for my golden sister when her kidneys failed.

Dante Moretti.

The Capo of the Chicago Outfit. The man who controlled half the city's vice.

The man who had held my hand in the dark and promised me the world, only to look at me in the light and see nothing but a liar.

I picked up the ticket.

The paper felt crisp and sharp against my thumb, grounding me.

"Okay," I said.

The silence in the room was deafening.

My father blinked, his mask of indifference slipping for a fraction of a second. "What?"

"I said okay," I repeated. "I'll go."

My mother finally looked up. Her eyes narrowed, suspicious of my sudden compliance.

"You're not going to make a scene?" she asked. "You're not going to run to Dante and spread your lies again?"

*Lies.*

That's what they called the truth here.

"No," I said. "I won't run to Dante."

Because Dante Moretti was dead to me.

He died the moment he let them drag me into that operating room.

He died the moment he chose the beautiful lie over the ugly truth.

I turned around and walked toward the heavy wooden doors.

"Seraphina," my father called out.

I stopped, my hand hovering on the brass knob.

"Don't miss your flight," he warned.

I didn't look back.

"I won't," I whispered.

I walked out of the office and down the long, marble hallway.

I passed the portrait of Isabella hanging in the foyer. She was smiling, radiant, perfect.

The Golden Child.

I was just the spare parts.

But spares had one advantage.

Nobody noticed when they stopped working.

Nobody noticed when they stopped caring.

I walked up the stairs to my room, the ghost of my death trailing behind me.

I wasn't going to fight for a place in this family anymore.

I was going to let them rot.

Seraphina Vitiello POV

My phone buzzed against the nightstand, a harsh, insistent vibration that rattled my teeth.

I stared at the screen, the glow illuminating the dark hollow of my room.

*Dante Moretti.*

The name used to make my heart perform gymnastics. Now, it just made my stomach turn sour.

*Penthouse. Suite 1808. Now.*

A command. Not a request.

In my past life, I would have rushed over, breathless, thinking he finally wanted to talk. Thinking he had remembered the truth.

I knew better now.

But I had to play the part. The obedient little sister. The punching bag.

If I deviated too much, too fast, they would lock me up before I could ever escape.

I pulled on a simple black dress. No makeup. No jewelry.

I looked like a shadow. That's what I was.

The building was a fortress owned by the Outfit-a mixed-use high-rise where the top floors served as private recovery suites for the elite.

I took the elevator up, watching the numbers climb.

18...

The doors slid open with a soft chime.

Two guards stood outside the suite. They didn't even check me for weapons.

After all, who fears the spare?

I pushed the heavy door open.

The suite smelled of lilies and sandalwood-the scent of expensive funerals.

Dante was there.

He was leaning against the mahogany desk, his suit jacket discarded, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the tan skin of his throat.

He was devastatingly handsome. Dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes like shattered ice.

And Isabella was in his lap.

She was giggling, tracing the line of his jaw with a manicured finger. Her dress was hiked up high on her thighs.

They looked like a centerfold for a vice magazine.

Isabella gasped when she saw me, feigning shock. She buried her face in Dante's neck.

"Dante, you didn't tell me she was coming," she whined.

Dante didn't look at her. He looked at me.

His gaze was cold. Predatory.

"I wanted her to see," he said. His voice was a low baritone that vibrated through the floorboards.

"See what?" I asked. My voice was steady. Dead.

"This." Dante gestured to Isabella, to the luxury around them, to the power he wore like a second skin. "I wanted you to see what loyalty looks like. What perfection looks like."

He stood up, gently setting Isabella aside.

He walked toward me. He towered over me, radiating heat and suppressed violence.

"You told your father you were leaving," he said. "Going to London."

"Yes."

"Good," he sneered. "Because I'm tired of your desperate attempts to claim credit for saving me. I'm tired of your jealousy."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy cream envelope.

He shoved it into my hand. The corner dug sharply into my palm.

"The wedding invitation," he said. "Consider it a command. I want you there. I want you to watch us say our vows. I want you to understand, once and for all, that you are nothing."

I looked down at the invitation.

*Dante Moretti & Isabella Vitiello.*

The calligraphy was exquisite. Like a beautiful epitaph.

"Understood," I said.

Dante paused. He was expecting tears. He was expecting me to scream that I was Seven, the girl who had dragged him from hell.

"Understood?" he repeated, his eyes narrowing.

"Message received," I said. "I wish you a long reign."

I turned to leave.

"Wait," Dante barked.

I stopped.

"You're pathetic," he spat. "Look at you. You don't even have the fire to fight for yourself."

"Fire burns, Dante," I said softly, refusing to turn back. "I'm done burning."

I walked out.

I heard Isabella laughing behind me. A cruel, tinkling sound like breaking glass.

Dante escorted her out a moment later. They were heading to the club at the base of the tower.

I followed them out of the building, keeping my distance, a ghost haunting the living.

The Chicago wind cut through my thin dress like a knife.

They stood on the curb, waiting for the valet. Dante had his arm around her waist, shielding her from the cold.

I stood ten feet away, shivering.

Above us, the old neon sign of the jazz club flickered ominously.

*The Blue Note.*

I heard the shriek of metal before I saw it.

A rusted bolt gave way.

The heavy steel frame of the sign groaned and detached from the brick facade.

It plummeted.

"Dante!" Isabella screamed.

Dante looked up.

He had a split second.

I was standing to his left. Isabella was to his right.

The sign was wide. It was going to hit us all.

He moved with the unnatural speed of a killer.

He lunged.

But he didn't lunge for me.

He threw his body over Isabella, tackling her to the pavement, shielding her with his own broad back.

He left me standing there.

The metal crashed down.

Pain obliterated my shoulder, my back, my legs.

The world turned white, then red.

I was pinned. Crushed under twisted steel and shattered glass.

I couldn't breathe.

I turned my head against the gritty asphalt. Blood was pooling warm and sticky around my face.

I saw Dante.

He was standing up, dusting off his suit. He was unharmed.

He was pulling Isabella to her feet.

"Are you hurt?" he asked her, his voice frantic. "Bella, look at me."

"I... I think I scraped my knee," she sobbed.

He hugged her tight. "I've got you. You're safe."

He didn't look left.

He didn't look at the pile of debris five feet away.

He didn't look at me.

I closed my eyes as the darkness took me.

The boy I saved in the safe house was truly dead.

And this time, I hoped I was too.

Seraphina Vitiello POV

I woke up to the rhythmic, relentless beeping of a machine.

My body felt pulverized, as if I had been dragged miles over asphalt and left to rot.

My left arm was encased in a heavy plaster cast. My ribs were taped tight enough to restrict my shallow breaths. My head throbbed with a dull, heavy ache that synced perfectly with the monitor's pulse.

I opened my eyes.

The room was white. Blindingly sterile. And completely empty.

No flowers. No cards. No parents.

A nurse bustled in, checking a clipboard. She jolted slightly when she saw me awake.

"Oh, you're up," she said. Her voice was kind, but her eyes held a heavy, suffocating pity. "You've been in a coma for two days."

Two days.

"Where is my family?" I rasped. My throat felt like I had swallowed sandpaper.

The nurse hesitated. She fiddled with the IV drip, avoiding my gaze.

"They're... down the hall," she finally admitted. "In the VIP suite."

"Isabella?"

"She's being treated for shock," the nurse said, her tone carefully neutral. "And a minor abrasion on her knee."

I almost laughed, but the spasm hurt my ribs too much.

Shock.

I had been crushed by a neon sign, and my sister was in the VIP suite for shock.

"I need to walk," I said.

"You shouldn't-"

"I need to walk."

I forced myself up. The pain was blinding, white-hot and jagged, but I welcomed it. It made me feel real.

I dragged my IV pole down the hallway, the metal wheels squeaking against the linoleum like a dying animal.

I heard them before I saw them.

Laughter. Bright, unburdened laughter.

The door to the VIP suite was open.

My mother was peeling a grape. My father was pouring wine.

Isabella was sitting up in bed, looking radiant in a silk robe, holding Dante's hand.

"Poor baby," my mother cooed. "That sign could have killed you."

"Dante saved me," Isabella said, looking at him with practiced adoration. "He's my hero."

Dante smiled at her. It was a soft smile. The kind he used to give me in the dark, back when I thought I mattered.

"Always," he said.

A waiter wheeled in a cart. A silver tureen of soup.

"Seafood bisque," the waiter announced. "With caviar."

Isabella wrinkled her nose. "I don't want it. It's too rich."

She looked up and saw me standing in the doorway, a broken ghost in a hospital gown.

Her eyes lit up with a sharp, glittering malice.

"Oh, Seraphina!" she chirped. "You're awake! Look, Dante, she's fine."

Dante turned. His expression hardened instantly, the warmth vanishing as if doused by ice water.

"You're walking," he noted, his voice flat. "Clearly not that injured."

"Isabella doesn't want her soup," my mother said, waving a hand dismissively. "Give it to Seraphina. She looks pale. She needs the protein."

I stared at the soup.

Creamy. Pink. Lethal.

"I'm allergic to shellfish," I said quietly.

The room went silent.

"Don't be ungrateful," my father snapped, slamming his wine glass down. "It's fifty dollars a bowl."

"She's always been picky," Isabella sighed, leaning back against her pillows. "Just like when she refused to eat the leftovers at Christmas."

Dante looked at me with disgust. "Your sister offers you kindness, and you throw it in her face? Eat the soup, Seraphina."

"It will kill me," I said.

"Stop being dramatic," Dante said, his jaw clenching. "You're just trying to get attention because I saved her and not you."

I looked at him. Really looked at him.

"You're right," I said, my voice hollow. "I am dramatic."

I turned and walked away.

I navigated the corridors in a haze, forcing my broken body to the pharmacy counter myself to get my pain meds.

Later, I sat by the hospital fountain in the courtyard. The water was cold and clear.

I just wanted five minutes of peace.

"You look like a corpse," a voice said.

Isabella stood there. She was wearing her silk robe, smoking a slim cigarette, looking entirely out of place against the sterile backdrop.

"What do you want, Isabella?"

"I want you to know that he's mine," she hissed. She stepped closer, smoke curling from her lips. "He chose me. He saved me. You were just roadkill."

"I know," I said. "You can have him."

"Liar," she spat. "You still want him. I see it in your eyes."

"I don't want garbage," I said.

Her face twisted, the pretty mask slipping.

She lunged at me.

She grabbed my shoulders and shoved.

I was weak. My balance was gone. I had nothing left to fight with.

I fell backward into the stone fountain.

The water was freezing.

My cast soaked it up instantly, dragging my arm down like an anchor.

My stitches tore.

A cloud of red blood bloomed in the clear water, swirling like smoke.

"Help!" Isabella screamed.

She ripped her own robe, scratched her own neck with manic precision.

"Help! She's trying to drown me!"

Dante burst into the courtyard.

He saw me in the water. He saw the blood.

Then he saw Isabella screaming.

He didn't ask. He didn't think.

He ran to Isabella.